


i carry my torch of bright stars

by tinsnip



Category: Deep Dish Nine - Fandom, Star Trek: Deep Space Nine
Genre: Gifts, M/M, Pre-Relationship, and for them, and maybe if you're lucky they'll get a fluttery feeling too, and you know they'll like it, but oh~, courting, flirtation, for you, it will probably just lead to trouble, of course none of it is a good idea, that fluttery feeling you get in your stomach, that fluttery feeling~!, when you're doing something for someone you really like
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-25
Updated: 2015-01-25
Packaged: 2018-03-09 02:04:51
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,679
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3232184
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tinsnip/pseuds/tinsnip
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There's nothing reasonable about this at all. Nothing rational. It's cold and miserable out, and if he had any sense at all, he'd be back home, under a blanket, drinking tea. Instead he's fighting his way through the cold and wind, and it's simply ridiculous.<br/>So why can't he stop smiling?</p><p>DD9 Elim Garak does a favour for DD9 Julian Bashir. Pre-relationship, but most certainly post-infatuation; Garak is far gone.</p><p>The fic has as its backbone "<a href="http://tinsnip.tumblr.com/post/109137246984/saturns-light-throws-a-ring-around-the-moon-and">Saturn's Light</a>" by Deb Talan. If you like it, you can buy it <a href="https://itunes.apple.com/us/album/a-bird-flies-out/id525143675%7C">here!</a></p>
            </blockquote>





	i carry my torch of bright stars

**Author's Note:**

> tinsnip hangs out with Lady + tinsnip drives home listening to The Weepies = tinsnip writes fluffy fic. The equation is solved!

_saturn's light throws a ring around the moon_  
_and i said my prayers too soon: no one was listening_  
_there's a hush on the street_  
_i can hear my own heartbeat and my lonesome breathing_  
_but my soul's little bird can still sing_

***

 _I am making a mistake,_ he thinks as he hurries down the street, coat wrapped around him against the breath of omnipresent winter. _Oh, I am making a mistake._

The city breathes deep around him, exhaling white against the night, smoke and mist curling up from manholes and doorways and the people on their way, and he hurries between and among them, hands leather-gloved, head wrapped up tight against the cold. It's a quiet night. It's too cold to stay out for long. Too cold to be out for anything but a fool's errand.

 _There seem to be a lot of fools in this city_ _…_

Well, then, that makes him one of many, and there's strength in groups, isn't that right? The thought makes him smile, stiff-cheeked and split-lipped in frosty air. At least he's not alone in his idiocy. There's evidence of it all around him. It's probable it was always there. It certainly seems unlikely that the city's foolishness began only when his did.

His heart beats in his chest, thudding hard as he hurries, legs pumping, breath hissing harsh into white plumes. It echoes in his ears, it thrums in his fingertips, coddled close in the centre of clutched fists jammed hard into pockets that aren't nearly enough against the chill. As he moves, it moves him, heartbeat matching his pace, lifting him, driving him along. It's a repetition that's almost musical, and he hums to himself, his heart providing percussion, _ridiculous, ridiculous, oh, I am making a mistake,_ and yet he's walking onwards, not quite smiling, blinking bright against the frozen air.

***

_it takes a will just to make it through the night_  
_when to wait and when to fight — i'm swing-and-missing_  
_when we meet, will his eyes recall me?_  
_i look for his face everywhere in the dark_  
_and i carry my torch of bright stars_

***

Not far to go now, and that's a good thing, because his rushing blood and desperate pace can only carry him so far before the cold consumes him entirely. He's moving mostly based on will now, the wind stripping breath from him. Around him, people are ducking into sheltered doorways, moving into convenience stores and restaurants, curling into shelter and into each other, hiding their faces from the wind. He's one of the few, the proud, the idiotic striding directly into it, as if there's something, _anything_ worth the loss of sensation in one's nose, lips, ears; the frosted friction of eyelashes coated white; the definite sense that one's nostrils are slowly icing over in a very undignified way.

He catches a glimpse of himself in a partly-snow-covered window, an image captured mid-stride as he moves by: layer upon layer upon layer of warmth and rich red, dark green, soft brown at his neck and around the top of his head, and upon all that another layer of white speckled like confectioner's sugar—no, like insect poison, _yes, that's better,_ and a face peering from beneath all this that has all its darkness turned to white. He doesn't dare stop to examine the tiny white-rimmed eyes, the pale lips pulled tight, and the curled disarray of his snow-soaked hair. Some things aren't worth looking at too closely.

_I'm unrecognizable._

Well, that seems like a good thing right now. There are things he wants to be remembered as. Well-put-together, for example. Composed. Calm and collected. A dispenser of carefully selected bon-mots. Not this gasping thing blinking against wind, eyes narrowed, hands burrowing deeper into his coat, feet slip-sliding on ice and slopping into slush and snow, driving himself onward to make a mistake and feeling not at all composed, calm, or collected.

Still… not upset, though. Not at all upset. Almost bright-delighted, glowing in a way he shouldn't be, a way he recognizes and should be wary of, should know to avoid, _oh, Elim, you are making a mistake and you know it and why, why are you doing it anyway?_

Through the snow, through the wind, through city streets in the near-darkness, head down, checking his memory because he can't check his phone—his phone, at least, being smart enough to know when it was too cold to operate—blinking in the dark, watching street signs and stores and glimmering night-time neon until he sees it, he pushes towards it, he pulls the frozen-metal door open as ice peels from it and he's through, he's in, steam rising from him, gasping at the warmth.

***

_couples kiss across counters and tables_  
_i smile and then look at the wall_  
_some people hold hands and they don't pay attention_  
_like their love is somebody else's invention_  
_our heads say hold back_  
_but our hearts run to strangers and say_  
_look at me, look at me, look at me_

***

The man behind the counter looks at him, eyebrows raised, and he can hardly blame him. Never mind that, never mind explanations: "One bowl, please," he says, water dripping from his nose, "with extra noodles and extra pork."

"That's all?" says the man, quietly incredulous.

"That's all."

His wallet is inaccessible beneath his coat. As little as he wants to peel himself free, he has to, and so it's loosened scarf and water on his neck and hands out of gloves and unbuttoned buttons and wet, warm air circulating around him as he digs, finds the pocket, slips the wallet from within its silk nest, tugs the bills free.

"It'll be about ten minutes."

"That's fine," he says, "and keep the change," and for ten minutes he can breathe warm air, oh, _luxury_ …

It's not a good idea. He contemplates going back outside again. At least there he'd stay acclimated to the cold, wouldn't have to screw up his courage to go back out into the night… but then he realizes that is a ridiculous idea, and he is being ridiculous, and while some kinds of ridiculous are perhaps worth being, suicidally ridiculous is not one of them.

Instead, he waits. There's nowhere to sit. The little shop is mostly for take-out, not eat-in, and so the three tables it does boast are already occupied with waiters and eaters and people bent over, dripping water on the floor, staring at their boots, trying to warm themselves as much as possible before they go back out again. Since he can't sit, he leans against the wall by the door, catching his breath, listening to his heart slow, feeling the near-painful harshness in his chest ease as his cold-soaked lungs breathe warm air again. Really, this climate isn't designed for human occupation; ah, well, needs must, and in the mean time, he can people-watch.

Here's someone inhaling a bowl of soup in long, slow gulps. He's by himself, but he's sharing a table with two other people, who are… ah. Public displays of affection are really quite something in this country. Nothing unseemly—not here, anyway, and this is where he lives now; still he looks away, examining the wall for a moment, smiling to himself. Any discomfort he's feeling is purely his own, of course. No one else seems bothered; some seem quite entertained by the show, in fact.

More comfortable to look at is the other couple waiting by the garbage bins, idly looking everywhere but at each other. They're holding hands in a loose, desultory way, one still wearing mittens; the other is clutching her mittens in one hand and her partner's mitten with the other. Mittens-off is reading the menu. Mittens-on is reading Coffee News. Aside from the touch of their hands, they could each be alone. Perhaps they are. Perhaps they prefer it that way.

He cannot imagine, if he had a hand to hold, treating it in such a cavalier way. If he had a hand to hold, warm in his own, he'd be mindful of it. He'd savour its pressure against his, would stroke his palm against it, would…

Mmm. These are probably not the best thoughts to be thinking in a public place, waiting for soup. Best tuck those away for now.

 _As much as I am able…_ these days such thoughts seem to keep popping up again. It's amusing. He'd thought his head was clear, that he had a firm grasp of his situation and its attendant realities, the things he could and could not afford.

_Instead, my heart was simply waiting for the right moment to spring._

His mouth quirks at the thought. An assassin-heart, clutching its tiny knife, slinking in dark quarters… yes, that seems appropriate, and also very silly, and it's probably good that his order is called out at that moment, wiping such thoughts from his mind. He nods his thanks at the man, picks up the bag, carefully balancing the styrofoam container inside, feeling its heavy, liquid weight.

The wind has picked up outside. The blowing snow is nearly horizontal.

_I am an idiot._

On go his layers, wet now. Out the door he goes, gasping at the cold. The wind nearly tears the bag from his grasp, and he clutches at it, grips the styrofoam container between his gloved hands, _argh,_ not even the luxury of pockets is to be permitted him, it seems, _I am such an idiot, I am making such a mistake_ —

***

_i want good love, i want it so bad_  
_it's a seed stuck in my throat, it's a weed around my hope_  
_it makes me choke and i can only breathe outside_  
_or in tall buildings with high ceilings and open doors:_  
_isn't there someone out there i am here for?_

***

It isn't really that long a walk. It isn't. Fifteen minutes at the most.

Fifteen minutes on a warm day. Fifteen minutes when the sun is shining. Fifteen minutes with the song of birds and the smell of coffee, pasta, fresh fruit wafting through the air from the patios.

In the dark, in the wind and the snow, with a useless plastic bag snapping in the wind and his hands half-frozen as they cradle a container of soup, it is approximately a nine-year-walk, and each step is accompanied by a hissed curse. When he slips on the ice and nearly tumbles, the air around him is treated to a half-minute diatribe illustrative of the many anatomical possibilities for snow, ice, and cold in general.

None of it matters, not really. He plods onwards. He has a goal, a stupid, _stupid_ goal, and he's almost there.

Ten more minutes (ice on his face, stinging his skin). Five more minutes (he can't feel his ears). Two more minutes, one, and there's the intersection, and beyond it the plaza, and beyond that home, _home,_ or at least the place he rests his head, oh, it's getting very difficult to be appropriately layered and acerbic when he's this _damned cold—_

He trots up the walkway, levers the door open while balancing the soup in one hand, turns himself around and leans against the inside wall as the door closes behind him, _oh, my, oh,_ my!

For a few slow minutes he just breathes. The lobby isn't spacious but it's big enough; he can stop here for a bit. He is faintly aware that later it will probably be amusing that, for once, he's finding it easier to breathe _inside._ Right at the moment, though, he can't think of much of anything but the warmth in his lungs, the taste of wet fabric and wet air as his breath hisses into his tugged-up too-loose scarf, the ache of his feet. He's almost certain he's twisted his ankle. Yes… yes, and his breath stops for a moment, that will have to be wrapped later and perhaps iced, oh, damn, the last thing he wants to think of is ice…

The soup is cooler than it was. That won't do. He needs to move.

Incredibly, the elevator is working today. That's good. Five flights aren't fun at the best of times; with a sore ankle and sore lungs, they'd be a near-impossibility. He blinks, thinks: yes, he can manage it, and so he presses the button, and when the doors creak open he walks in and pays no attention at all to the size of the compartment. It's mirrored, which helps, and so he presses five and ignores the closing doors and stares at himself staring at himself until they open again. A few seconds, that's all. Hardly anything, and now he's here, and it's one, two, three doors down…

He knocks.

He waits.

_What if he isn't in?_

_I'm an idiot._

_At least I'll have soup._

_This is a mistake._

_I don't even want soup._

_I really am an—_

—the door opens.

Julian looks at him wide-eyed.

"Garak? Is that _you?"_

"Unfortunately." His nose is dripping water again. There is no dignified way to deal with it, and so he pretends it isn't happening. Instead he lifts the container, offering it. "I've brought you something."

"You've… oh—is that—" Julian's brows lift. He reaches out with beautiful hands (that should be kept safe, pressed palm-to-palm) and takes the styrofoam cup, unwrapping it from its useless bag. He pries its lid open and inhales, eyes closing. "It's from Delka's!"

"Mmm."

"Oh, I was _craving_ this…" Another inhalation, and his eyes open. "How did you know?"

"You have an exam coming up tomorrow, don't you?"

"I do…"

"I've noticed you often have leftovers from Delka's in your fridge after exams." He smiles, cold cheeks stretching. "You went straight home from work, however. And Delka's doesn't deliver."

"Yes—I didn't really feel that I had time, I needed to revise, and I didn't have… um, well, things are a bit tight…" Julian's smile is bright. "This is amazing!"

 _Amazing._ That's worth basking in.

Julian, meanwhile, is taking another look at him, and his smile has turned sideways. "It's awful out there. Did you go out in that?"

"Obviously."

A blink, and his smile widens _(widens!)_. "Just to get this?"

Nonchalance is the key. "I had other errands to run. They took me by Delka's."

"Mmm. What else did you have to do? Must have been awfully urgent to take you out on a night like this…"

"Oh, this and that." He smiles, looking at Julian side-on. "Surely you aren't interested in the minutiae of my evening."

"Forgive my nosiness," says Julian, whose smile is toothy, who's looking at him with an expression he could bathe in. "It was kind of you to think of me."

"Think nothing of it, my dear." He bows slightly. "Now if you'll forgive me, I believe I should retreat to my cavern."

"Oh." Julian blinks. "That's… unfortunately, that's probably best. I mean," and he looks back into his apartment, "it's a bit of a mess in here, and I really do have to revise…"

"Absolutely. Another time, perhaps?"

"Oh, yes," says Julian, eyes widening, laughter in his voice, and he lifts the soup as if to toast him. "Thanks again for this."

 _You're wonderful._ "You're welcome."

"It was really very nice of you."

 _It was really very stupid._ "It was my pleasure."

"Um… see you soon?"

 _I shouldn't, but I will._ "Definitely."

"Good night…!"

"Good night, my dear," and he turns and drips his way back down the hall to the elevator and does not turn back around to watch the apartment door click shut. When the elevator doors slide open, the reflection he sees in the mirrored wall is positively ridiculous.

The ride back down is barely noticeable. His ankle doesn't seem to hurt much either. Everything is really rather good, to be honest.

 _A mistake, a mistake, I'm making a mistake_ _…_

His gloves are warm, still carrying some of the heat of the soup. He closes his hands, feeling the warmth against his palms.

_At least I'm making it a good one._

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Taste of the City](https://archiveofourown.org/works/3274736) by [stifledlaughter](https://archiveofourown.org/users/stifledlaughter/pseuds/stifledlaughter)




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